No Weddings (No Weddings #1)(13)

“Hey, Cade.”

Flirty and sexy Jillian walked up to the bar, displaying her pushed-up rack for my approval. Which she didn’t in any way need, but it was our thing.

“Lookin’ fine, Jill Baby.” The same words were exchanged every night. But it made her beam with happiness, which made me smile, cementing the positive ritual between us.

Her T-shirt was a black, ultrathin baby tee, standard-issue ripped like all the girls’ shirts to reveal a glimpse of the hot-pink pushup lace that cupped her perky C’s. No, I’d never personally verified that fact. Yes, my eyes, hands, and mouth could nail with accuracy the cup size of any woman. But in this case, she was an employee.

And Ben and I had taken our hiring process very seriously. First, we established written guidelines, then agreed not to vary from them. All the waitresses had to be C, D, or DD cups. Not smaller or larger. Then, among those candidates, they needed letters of recommendation from a former employer but couldn’t have worked for more than two of our competitors. They also had to have a great personality that never slipped during their shift, be honest and loyal to a fault, and serve drinks to a customer’s satisfaction like their life depended on it.

Not too much to ask, really. We demanded a lot from those we employed. We also paid them handsomely for it. Not many bar owners gave their employees—every last one of them, from the bartenders to the janitors—a percentage of the take.

But we did.

It had always seemed a sound theory of mine, one I’d tossed around to my dad on our occasional talks. He seemed impressed with the notion every time I’d brought it up but had never heard it in practice before. Now he was a part of the test run in action.

Our experimental gamble paid off. We didn’t earn less by giving away more. We made more. Hand-over-fist more. Amazing how motivated every cog in the machine became when a portion of every dollar flowed into their pockets just like it did ours, in an appropriate percentage to their level of contribution and ranking, of course. But it didn’t matter how much one received compared to others in our company. Even the barbacks and janitors made way more than any competitor offered.

Happy employees equaled happy customers which, in turn again, equaled happy employees. The sound business theory had proven itself in practice.

Damn. 10:30 p.m. The time seemed to drag tonight. Kamikaze shooter: three bucks. A dozen Sex on the Beach shots: thirty-six bucks?

I glanced up at April, another one of our waitresses, then pointedly at the drinks, opening my hands up in question. She grinned. “Bachelorette party.”

“Niiice. Keep ’em happy, my friend.”

She winked. “Always do.”

April picked up the tray, and I watched her tight ass weave through the crowd in those low-cut jeans. No, I didn’t want to tap that fine body. It was pure common sense from an owner’s perspective that we did not fraternize with the employees. It also fell under the no-drama, no-gossip personal clauses I had. I’d even inserted the rule into our business plan, and Ben had agreed, adopting the standard as well.

I’d never once thought about breaking that rule. And nothing in the world would ever make me. I enjoyed the bar too much. Was proud of what we’d accomplished, taking it from a figment of our drunken imaginations one night into a larger-than-life reality.

All of a sudden, one of the five members of our security team blurred by, sprinting through the crowd, using his big hands to safely move unsuspecting patrons out of his way. I scanned ahead and saw his target. A group of rowdy college-aged guys had their hands on Mandy. She struggled to break free, but the stronger men overpowered her, tossing her around like their personal plaything.

It took every ounce of willpower I had to remain behind the bar. Any occurrence like that always did. With a clenched jaw and my hands gripped around the steel rail below the counter, I watched as Trey expertly diffused the situation.

Our security teams had been trained by the best in the industry. Trey knew the key was to calmly address the belligerent customers and remind them of the consequences, or deliver them, depending on the circumstances. Sometimes they listened. Sometimes their egos got ahead of their common sense.

A punch was thrown. Trey grabbed Mandy, shoved her to safety behind his back, and took the punch but turned slightly, allowing the blow to glance off his cheekbone. Then he locked both hands around the guy’s wrist while it still shot through the air and twisted his arm around.

Trey leaned his face into the guy’s ear, no doubt listing out the next requirements of his continued ability to breathe. The cavalry arrived seconds later, each covering a rowdy friend, subduing them before a full fight broke out. Only customers within a ten-foot radius were aware of the skirmish, just the way we liked to keep it. Dance music still thumped, drinks still flowed, and everyone still had a great time. Well, everyone except for those four idiots who were now being escorted out the door.

We’d established rules for the hiring of our security too. Level heads and experience in handling people with a minimal amount of force were a must, but they each had another valuable talent: excellent memories. Two of them had near-photographic retention. All knew not to ever rely on that talent, however. Identifications were documented, names and descriptions of crowd disrupters added to the list. If you ever got kicked out? You never got back in.

Respect. Simple. Not everyone understood the concept. You either had it, or you didn’t. We had plenty of other customers to protect and refused to allow rude *s to affect their good time.